


Good Counsel

by Lemur710



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene, discussions of in-universe racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 17:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8854339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemur710/pseuds/Lemur710
Summary: Isabelle Lightwood meets with her advocate, the High Warlock of Brooklyn, before she’s put on trial for high treason. Izzy and Magnus bond. Missing scene for 1x11 “Blood Calls to Blood”.This is a sequel of sorts to Binding Spell, but can be read on its own.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I noticed that Magnus seems surprised by what Isabelle says at the trial, and it gave me thoughts (and feelings). Also, I was intrigued by the way Isabelle turns to look at Alec while Lydia speaks.

Escorted by two guards at his side, Magnus walked to the office where Isabelle Lightwood had been detained pending trial. He tried to recall the last time he’d been given more than a passing glance, let alone a security detail. But all around, Shadowhunters were on high alert, tension in the air. Special envoys, inquisitors, and no Alec...the New York Institute felt more like hostile territory than it had in a long time.

The guards glared openly at him as they unlocked the door and held it open. “Warlock’s here,” one of them announced, like the words tasted foul on her tongue. Biting his own, Magnus tapped his dark-polished fingers against the handle of his briefcase and strode inside. They locked the door behind him, and it might have been intimidating if he’d thought the Clave capable of building a cage that could hold him.

He took a quick glance around the room, noting the sturdy desk and stained-glass windows, the ornate stone fireplace with an uninspired vase and an onyx horse head on the mantle. All in all, the décor was what he expected. To see his client quietly sobbing on the black loveseat, however, was not.

“Isabelle, my dear,” he said. He hurried to sit beside her, setting down his briefcase and conjuring a box of tissues.

“I’m—sor—sorry,” she gasped. She wiped at her eyes with the sleeves of the faded black sweater she wore over denim leggings and knee-high boots. Magnus plucked a tissue from the box and handed it to her. “I’m okay. I’m okay.” She pressed the tissue to her cheeks.

He stayed beside her, close enough to touch if she reached for him. “So,” he said carefully when she’d quieted at last, “how’s your week been going?”

She broke into startled laughter. “I’ve had better,” she said.

“Well, I am here to help. And to start, I can advise you _not_ to wear that outfit to court.”

The corner of her mouth lifted in a humorless smile. “Alec’s bringing me one of my dresses later.”

“Ah,” Magnus said. Pain pinched through his heart, but he ignored it. Instead, he gave Isabelle the warmest smile he could muster, though it felt tight on his lips. It was chilly in the room and the sweater looked several sizes too big; Alec must have brought that for her, too. He snapped his fingers, sparking flames in the fireplace.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “Alec wasn’t sure you would.”

“Well, Alec’s been wrong about a few things lately.” He crossed to the desk, dropping his briefcase on it with a thump.

Isabelle nodded lightly, which was about as much agreement as he expected from a sister who loved her brother so much. Then her expression sobered and splintered, tears rising. “I can’t stop thinking about Meliorn. I know that’s stupid when I’m on trial for _high treason_.”

“Sometimes we dwell on heartbreak because it’s the most pleasant pain we have to choose from.”

She looked up at him, confused, wiping roughly at her eyes. She smeared her mascara.

“It also lets us think about handsome men,” he said, “and that’s always nice.” He winked at her, but could see she didn’t understand.

“I didn’t know I felt like this,” she said. “Maybe I don’t, I don’t know.” She rubbed at her forehead and took in a shuddering breath. “I’ve been alone with my thoughts too long. Lo siento. You don’t need to hear this.”

“Need to, no, but I’m willing to.” He leaned back against the desk.

She looked up at him, then twisted a lock of hair behind her ear. She stroked her thumb across the tissue in her hands. “Meliorn and I have never been anything official. We like each other, but we aren’t... I’m not really the monogamous type and it’s not like Downworlders are either.”

Magnus winced inwardly at the stereotype, but let it go.

“In the middle of all of this,” she said, “I kind of realized I wasn’t sleeping with anyone else. I don’t know why.” 

“You care about him.”

“I know, but that’s not really me. I like sex. A lot.”

“Of course.”

“I didn’t think I could ever want just one person. I don’t even know if I want him, really. I don’t—I don’t know what I want.” She folded the tissue in half, then in half again. She smoothed the edges with each fold, careful and precise. “I don’t know if I want to get married. Or have children. I just know I don’t want to be my mother.” 

_Ah,_ Magnus thought, _that’s closer to the heart of it._ Isabelle’s voice had taken on a much harder tone, her expression rigid. “You know,” he began, “they say your childhood is over the day you realize your parents are flawed and human.” He unbuttoned his suit coat, pushing the fabric from his waist. “I think it’s safe to say you’re officially no longer a child, Isabelle Lightwood.”

She breathed a laugh like it wasn’t funny at all and tugged a fresh tissue from the box. “She’s only ever been with my father,” she said. “At least, that’s what she tells me when she’s going on about my ‘improper behavior.’ I don’t think they even like each other. I don’t want to pick one person just because I’m supposed to and then spend the rest of my life with someone I don’t like, or—or can’t respect.” She wiped the second neatly folded tissue against her cheeks. "Guess I won't have to worry about it if I end up banished."

“So little faith in my defense.” He scoffed with a _tsking_ click of his tongue.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, I know you’ll do everything you can. But it’s the _Clave_.”

Magnus shrugged. He’d seen too much of their destructive power to underestimate the Clave entirely, but their dogmatic rigidity left loopholes and cracks that he’d been slipping through for decades. He didn’t doubt they’d find a way to wriggle Isabelle out of this mess. “What about Meliorn?" he asked. "You could tell him how you feel."

“No. I know he cares about me, but it’s not... His riddles feel like games sometimes. I know it’s not his fault, but they—” Her voice snapped in the middle. “He doesn’t trust me and maybe he shouldn’t.” 

“I think you’ve proven yourself worthy of his trust. You are about to stand trial for saving him.”

Isabelle shrugged, and Magnus saw in that a Lightwood trait. “Saving him from my brother and his fiancé. From my own people.”

Tension crept across Magnus’s skin. He shifted just slightly against the desk.

“Alec’s trying to help me now, but he’s part of why I’m here. And my parents won’t be there, did you know that?” She looked at him, shoulders trembling. “But they supported it, all of them, even knowing what Meliorn means to me. I know they love me, but—They tell me they love me, but I don’t... _How could they do this if they love me?_ ” 

Magnus watched as she buried her face in her hands, hugging her knees to weep like the child she no longer was. _And that,_ he thought, _is why it’s nicer to think about a handsome man._ He looked about the room, at the onyx horse head on the mantle, at the dappled autumn colors on the walls. At the massive stained-glass window of an avenging angel with sword raised. Magnus met hollow stained-glass eyes and wondered how much of his life would be spent in the chaos and violence wrought by broken angels.

He felt tired. In this building where people called him “warlock” like it was an insult. Where his powers were permitted only because they were useful, as though any of them had the right to tell him what he could and could not do with the magic thrumming in his veins. Where nothing ever seemed to change, not even him. Because he was here, in this building, out of either love or spite—and neither had ever brought him anything but pain.

But none of that was Isabelle’s fault. He pushed himself from the desk and walked over, sitting on the low table in front of her. He gently closed his hand over hers.

“What do I do, Magnus?” she asked wetly. She pressed her forehead to their joined hands. “How do I trust Alec ever again? How do I stand in the same room with my parents?”

Magnus took in a deep breath and let it out. “You don’t need to decide all of that right now, Isabelle. Right now, you need to think about you. We only have a few hours until the trial.”

Isabelle sat up, fighting for her composure. She nodded vigorously as she swallowed back more tears. “You’re right,” she said, squeezing his hand. She exhaled slowly. “Let’s talk about the trial. We need to talk about the trial.”

“Shall we?” He stood and she stood with him. He kept her hand, escorting her to the chair in front of the desk. She took in another fortifying breath and sat.

He slid his suitcoat off his shoulders, draped it on the back of the oaken desk chair, and sat down across from her. She looked calmer, her breathing steady.

“First things first,” he said. “Are you guilty of helping the Seelie known as Meliorn escape custody and evade interrogation by the Silent Brothers in defiance of direct orders from the Clave?”

Isabelle raised her chin, dried tears still shining on her cheeks. “Yes,” she said firmly. “I’m guilty.”

“Good! Well done.” Magnus popped the latches on his briefcase and flipped open the lid. “Now that that’s out of the way, let’s talk about how we’re going to win.”

Isabelle gave a small, hopeful smile.

For the next hour, they discussed the particulars of the case. Isabelle’s forensic eye let little escape her attention and Magnus took copious notes, pen scratching over parchment. As always with the Clave, there was no shortage of moving pieces and personal interests.

“Orders.” Isabelle rolled her eyes as she paced the room, stalking furiously like a lioness with sweater sleeves pulled down over her hands. “Everybody just keeps talking about orders, but no one’s _thinking_ about the orders they’re following.”

Magnus nodded lightly with a faint raise of his eyebrows. He felt weary in his bones as he listened, writing down the thoughts as quickly as they came to him. Every sentence he wrote felt like one he’d written before. This room felt too familiar, the ranting Shadowhunter before him reminded him of others he’d known. The Cup was at the center of all of this, he realized. The Clave was focused blindly, recklessly on the Mortal Cup and they didn’t care who or what they destroyed in its pursuit. It was true to their nature, if nothing else. 

“They don’t see it. They say they don’t agree with Valentine, but I think they just don’t agree with his methods,” Isabelle said, heels thudding dully on the thick area rug. “But killing Downworlders, believing we’re better than they are—they think Valentine is right about all that. Maybe they’d never kill a Seelie with their own hands, but they’d let it happen. Can you believe that?”

“Yes,” Magnus answered. 

Isabelle shook her head, disgusted, and folded her arms across her chest. “That’s not what we fight for. It’s not what the Clave stands for.”

“But it’s what they’ve always done.”

Her eyes lifted to his. She looked young and innocent, her figure silhouetted by the massive warrior angel on the window behind her.

“This is what the Clave has always been,” he said. He focused back on his notes, pulling the black ink across pale parchment. He felt all 400 of his years pressing down on his heart. “They exalt ideals they never live up to and call the rest of us uncivilized. You’d be hard pressed to find a Downworlder who doesn’t know every Shadowhunter law and custom, because if we don’t we die. The Clave only knows ours because they outlawed them.”

“I forget that you’ve lived so long,” Isabelle said softly after a few moments. She stood hugging herself, bathed in the blue and red of the stained glass. “You always seem so...happy, and fun.”

“Ah, that’s how you know I’m old,” Magnus said. “Despair is a luxury of youth.” He’d spoken harshly, he knew, and Isabelle didn’t deserve it—or at least, she deserved it less than most Shadowhunters—but Magnus felt so sore and tired, so hurt and wounded. He found his loopholes, he endured and survived, but it wasn’t without a cost. Sometimes, it felt like he was rebuilding hope from his own bone marrow because nothing in the world gave him reason to have it. 

“I’m sorry.” It was all but a whisper.

Magnus’s jaw tightened. “I don’t need you to be sorry,” he said. He’d known too many Shadowhunters who were sorry. The ones who were sorry, but quietly admired their friend’s collection of warlock marks. The ones who were sorry, but “Seelie girls are different,” so it didn’t matter. The ones who were sorry, but lifted their seraph blades with the next breath.

The fire crackled and popped in the silence, joined by the low _scratch-scratch_ of Magnus’s pen across the paper. 

“Will I be called to testify?” Isabelle asked.

“Yes.”

“Will it be on the record?”

Magnus looked up, noting a strange intensity in her tone. “With an inquisitor here, count on it.”

Isabelle nodded once, curtly. “Good.” She looked back to the window.

It was several minutes later that Magnus sensed her walking nearer. She lowered into the chair across from him and crossed her legs. She somehow managed to make an over-large sweater look regal. “May I ask you something? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“Okay,” he said, pen still poised over the paper.

“How old were you when your childhood was over?” she asked.

The question caught Magnus off guard. His answer came without thought. “I didn’t have a childhood. Even when I was young, I was old.”

She nodded, eyes still on him. Magnus was suddenly reminded that Isabelle Lightwood was an expert in cutting people open and finding wounds. “What do you see in Alec?” she asked.

He laughed to hide the sudden spasm of his nerves. He set down the pen and tugged on the hem of his vest. “I guess I should expect that question from a little sister.”

“I don’t mean it like that. I love Alec more than anything in the world. But I don’t know what he’s like when he’s with you.”

Magnus eyed her, wary and anxious despite how much he wanted to trust her. The way she said it— _when he’s with you_ —felt so intimate, and so far from their reality, it physically hurt. Her keen, scientific gaze was unrelenting. Would she believe him, he wondered, if he told her how kind and gentle Alec had been with him? That her cold, rule-following brother had held his hand and kissed his cheek? Did he even believe it himself anymore? Alec had been so different since then. “If Alec hasn’t told you anything, it’s not really my place—” 

“I’m not asking you to kiss and tell, Magnus,” she said. “But oh! _Have_ you kissed? No, don’t tell me.”

Magnus couldn’t keep the rueful smile from his face. He unfastened and refastened the shirt cuff at his wrist. “He has a good heart,” he answered. “He doesn’t listen to it enough, but it’s a good one. He’s...” Every language he knew failed to give him words that could match what he felt when he thought of Alec. “He’s very beautiful,” he breathed at last.

“He is,” she agreed. She smiled, small but warm, like she’d understood he meant so much more than appearance. “I could try talking to him, if—”

“Oh, don’t you dare.” He shook his head. “I can handle your brother. And Alexander should be free to make his own choices, even if I don’t agree with them.” He swallowed hard and dared a glance at Isabelle to see limpid brown eyes and a mouth that clearly wanted to say more. But she stayed quiet, gaze intense on him. She nodded just once.

“You’re right,” she said, then she softened. “If it helps, I’ve never seen him notice anyone the way he notices you.”

Magnus gathered his papers and thumped the stack against the desk. “It doesn’t help, no, but thank you.” He smiled tightly through the pain in his chest.

The door opened without warning. Magnus and Isabelle both hopped to their feet as Alec walked in with dresses draped sloppily over his arm, a makeup case and a pair of black heels dangling precariously from one hand. He jolted to a stop when he saw Magnus, though he must have known he was there. The door locked shut. This time, it did seem mildly intimidating.

“Magnus,” Alec greeted flatly, then his mouth stuttered over a few words that never formed. He looked just as uncomfortable as Magnus felt. “I have dresses. For Izzy.”

“I figured. They don’t look my size.” Magnus rolled his eyes and turned his back. He wished Alec had the decency to not be so attractive. 

Isabelle crossed to her brother. “You brought half my closet. Why are they all wrinkled?”

“I didn’t know what you’d want, and then they had to search everything to make sure I wasn’t bringing you a weapon.” He deposited the hefty black-sided makeup kit in her hands. “I think they took some of your—tools.”

“My tools?” Isabelle opened the lid and her shoulders drooped as she rooted through the gutted items. Perhaps now more than ever, Magnus felt her pain. “What did they think I would do with a brow brush?”

“I don’t know.” Alec rubbed the back of his neck. “I can try to get them back?”

“No, don’t bother.” Isabelle glumly flicked through her remaining liners and pencils. 

Magnus glanced between brother and sister. Alec looked so helpless and guilty, Magnus almost felt sorry for him. But then, he wasn’t sure how Alec expected to feel when his fiancé indicted his own sister for high treason and even that wasn’t enough to call off the wedding. 

“Do you want me to—” Alec began, but Magnus stepped forward.

“I can handle it, Alec.” Alec met his eyes, and Magnus cursed his heart for skipping a beat. “That’s what you’re paying me to do, after all,” he said, voice hard.

Alec’s gaze flittered again to Isabelle, then he nodded. Magnus hated the stilted, broken air, and the tension in his spine. It had been so _easy_ between them before, or had he imagined that? Alec laid the dresses and heels on the desk as carefully as he could, then knocked on the door to be released from the room.

Magnus turned to Isabelle and joined her in picking over the remnants of what looked to have been an impressive makeup collection. “Are you okay?” he asked.

She sighed. “Yes.” Then, she looked at him, eyes soft. “Are you?”

“I’m fine.” He picked up a battered eyeliner. “Unfortunately, your brother is not the first person to spurn my advances.” 

“Does it get easier?” she asked, sounding heart-sore.

“No.” The word was out of his mouth before he could stop it. “Well, in some ways, yes,” he amended, hoping to temper that startled expression on Isabelle’s face. “You start to know yourself better. You get over heartbreak once, you know you can survive it. You start to recognize the hurt for what it is, and...you endure.”

“But in other ways, it gets much harder.” He opened a lipstick, admiring the deep burgundy hue, then closed it again. “The stories you tell yourself start to wear thin. ‘I’m still young’ stopped comforting me after my first centennial. ‘I’m just intimidating,’ that was another,” he said, quirking an eyebrow. “I told myself I was too open, or maybe too closed off. I did too much for this person, then not enough for this person. None of it worked. None of _them_ worked. And then, at some point, the hurt comes again and you have nothing left to say to yourself, except ‘Maybe I’m not meant to have this.’”

He coughed to hide the break in his voice, but there was no doubt Isabelle heard it. Just as clearly as she saw the tears he tried to blink away. The compassion radiating from her only made them harder to control. He wanted it to be Alec. Still, despite everything, he felt such horrible, clawing _hope_ in his heart. He wanted to believe the way he felt for Alec _meant_ something.

Magnus lowered his head, feeling exposed and embarrassed. Isabelle’s hand closed warmly over his. He noticed her chipped nail polish and knew they had had to fix that straightaway. “What color will you be wearing?” he asked. “As your advocate, it’s very important we do this with style. I have a certain reputation.”

“Well, whatever you pick, it needs to go with this.” Isabelle slid a thumb under the neck of the sweater and pulled out the familiar silver and red necklace he knew as well as his own skin.

“You’re still wearing it.”

“Haven’t take it off since you gave it to me. I wear it with pride."

Magnus smiled. It was somehow the most comforting thing she could have said.


End file.
